Star-Crossed
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: "Insomnia?" "Take a wild guess," she responds. "The man who once had me tortured for information just waltzed back into my life, saying he has nowhere else to go, and now we're working together." / Presa has a lot on her mind, including but not limited to whether there is such a thing as love in the first place, so Wingul helps ease her worries. I do not own Tales of Xillia.


The stars are shining over Kanbalar tonight.

It's a beautiful sight, and a rare one, in a city where clouds blanket the sky daily. Those living there walk outside to stand in the street and stare, openmouthed, at the night sky, dazzled by its magnificence. But though the stars shed light, they offer no heat, and—shivering as they take a final, wistful glance heavenward—they return quickly to the coziness of fire and family.

But some look without seeing, and their blindness keeps them warm.

Presa's eyes gaze fixedly at the galaxy spreading across the sky like a brush stroke, but her mind is far away, ignoring the chill that gradually wraps her in an icy embrace. She defies the stars to give her a reason why they sent _him_ to her arms again.

She doesn't give second chances.

Presa remembers the way every nerve in her body screamed, harmonizing dissonantly with her own shrieks of agony, and the way he just stood there and watched. She recalls, the image blurry through tears long since dried, that his face was blank. Not even a flicker of pity, before she lost consciousness—and he was gone when she woke again.

But Presa also remembers the lazy days when he would rest his head in her lap and she would play with a few out-of-place strands. Some of their nights together were so full of passion there was no time for sleep. And sometimes, as they lay side by side catching their breath, his hot rough hands would wander all over her body, and he would look into her eyes and tell her he loved her.

And Presa was fool enough to believe him.

But not anymore. She doesn't care how lost he says he is, or how helpless the expression in his sharp and sleepy eyes; Presa is not going to be taken in by his seductive lies again. At least, that's what she tells herself. She can feel herself falling for him once more, losing her hold on the cliff she's scaled over the last five years—but she's going to flail all the way in the hopes of sprouting wings and flying back out of his reach.

"Insomnia?"

Presa turns her head slightly in surprise. Why is Wingul still awake, and what is he doing here?

"Take a wild guess," she responds, turning away from him—her superior and equal, enemy and ally, rival and lover. "The man who once had me tortured for information just waltzed back into my life, saying he has nowhere else to go, and now we're working together."

She sighs, breath hanging visibly in the air as she hangs her head. It was her fault for agreeing to take the matter to Gaius, a final favor to which she did not expect the king to agree. Why had Presa allowed him to catch her off-guard, to take advantage of a moment of weakness and manipulate her once more?

Wingul walks deliberately up to her, standing a respectful distance away, but says nothing. After her initial suspicion, Presa grows gradually accustomed to the gentle silence, so different from the hisses and growls that usually fill the air between them.

"You loved him once," says Wingul suddenly, but it is not a question and he is not looking at her. It sounds like he wants to say something else, but the words on his tongue do not take flight. Presa's heart skips a beat at the mention of love, and her fingers tighten on the railing.

Her throat aches at the thought that she might once have loved—might _still _love someone so undeserving. "Leave me alone," she manages, staring up resolutely at the silent stars. She will stand there as long as it takes for him to stop dredging up emotions long since forgotten—but he only leans his back against the railing.

"Presa," says Wingul simply, and she can tell his eyes are trained on hers, but refuses to meet them. It takes a long time for him to finish his thought, the silence between them becoming steadily less comfortable. "What will you do if he betrays you again?"

She looks over at him automatically, surprised and suspicious, to find a surprising amount of earnestness in his ordinarily impassive golden eyes. Whatever his motives are for asking, he's unusually attached to her response.

"Why do you care?" asks Presa, looking up again to focus on a silver-lined cloud scudding across the edge of the night sky. Wingul only gives a light sigh and looks at his feet in response; she can almost see the gears turning in his head as he chooses his words.

"Love is a dangerous thing," he confesses after a long silence, looking up again, and their eyes lock. "People do or say things unlike them, or abandon lifelong missions, all for the sake of their loved ones." Wingul hesitates, dropping his gaze, but says no more.

"So you're questioning my loyalty," clarifies Presa, raising an eyebrow. "Wondering if having him along for the ride will affect my performance." She almost laughs at the irony of his concern. As recently as a few years ago, Wingul would have delighted in the prospects of getting rid of her. It took him an extraordinarily long time to trust Presa, given her prior profession—even after he finally succumbed to the same charms he condemned.

"Do you still love him?"

He asks the question so quietly Presa can barely hear, staring straight up, and even when she registers the words, she's convinced she must have misunderstood. There is no reason why Wingul would ask something so personal of her. Presa debates initiating their usual dance, a slow and indirect process wherein nothing is truly said amid the witty words they exchange—but the starlight illuminates the path forward. Truth, for once.

"I don't _know_," she says agitatedly, and her tail swishes in frustration; she slides her hands along the railing, worn too smooth for splinters, and turns away from Wingul. "I used to say to myself, in the days after he left me," she continues, smiling sadly and dropping her hands back to her sides, "that there is no such thing as love. I might have even started believing it, somewhere along the line."

Presa only realizes how cold she is when Wingul tucks his cape around her shoulders, surprising her. It doesn't do much, fur notwithstanding, but she finds herself grateful nonetheless. "_Tiaemukusu_," she murmurs, looking back at him, before she can remember that he never accepts her thanks, even in his own language.

But tonight is the night of exceptions.

"_Ban'ruwaitun'_," is his mumbled response, completing the formula, though he does not meet her eyes. He shifts suddenly, taking a step forward as though to go back to the castle—but Presa, on an impulse, reaches out and catches his wrist. He tenses automatically before she feels him force himself to relax.

"What are you doing?" he asks, turning back to face her; his voice is guardedly curious, but not annoyed, to her surprise. Presa only smiles at him tentatively, stepping forward. As she slides her hand down to his and interlaces their fingers, he looks down at her, expression softening.

Presa takes a deep breath, leaning her forehead momentarily against his chest, before she looks up and meets his eyes. "Don't worry about me," she says, as convincingly as possible. "He doesn't belong here. As long as I keep that in mind, I'll be able to keep him at arm's length." She puts as much conviction into her voice as possible, more even than she feels; the last thing she wants is for Wingul to decide he's causing her too much pain and kill him for her.

"I'm not worried about you," says Wingul, and Presa knows he's lying. Even though his voice is as measured as ever, and he doesn't break eye contact, there's something just a little too faraway in his expression. "He's a liability, that's all. I'm concerned that your focus will suffer because he weighs too heavily on your mind. And heart," he adds carefully.

"I thought you were more preoccupied with my loyalties changing," says Presa, giving his hand a squeeze; annoyance flashes briefly across his face, but vanishes again without a trace. "If you're going to lie, at least keep your story straight."

Wingul heaves a sigh, removing his hand from hers. "Can't I be concerned about both?" he asks, his eyes and voice oddly gentle. "You are the fangs of the chimera, and we already lost our stinger." He pauses. "We can't afford to lose you to him—whether because you fall in battle through his influence _or_ because you turn against us."

There is a moment of silence, as though in her memory. "And what will you do if either happens?" asks Presa softly, tilting her head. "Not the Chimeriad, not His Highness," she adds quickly, as Wingul opens his mouth to respond; he closes it again, frowning. "_You_."

"Why do you care?" he asks after another long pause, his voice a whisper as he echoes her earlier rebuttal. "You'll be dead, or you'll be with him. Either way, nothing I do will matter to you anymore." There were the barest hints of regret and resentment in the latter statement, but they held such a dangerous edge that Presa knew better than to mention them.

"I want to know," responds Presa simply, having no reason to give, and Wingul lets out his breath in a resigned sigh, expression darkening in the already dim silver light.

"If you betray us," he says, "I'll hunt you down, and him too, and I'll slaughter you both myself, whether you're together or apart." He hesitates, bringing his fingers up to lift her chin. "I'll give _you_ a quick death, should you choose to surrender, but _he _won't be so fortunate."

There's a long, uncomfortable silence as they both turn their eyes back up to the sky. Clouds are gathering again at the edges, stirred by a high wind. Presa has her doubts about whether he'll be able to kill her so easily, surrender or no, but says nothing about it. The last thing she wants is to bring back their traditional power struggle.

"And… what will you do… if I go down fighting?" she asks, haltingly.

"If you were to fall in battle on his account," he says, looking down at her with an expression almost like tenderness, "I would tear him apart first. If he wasn't the one to kill you, after he's dead, I'd track down the ones who did."

Presa nods thoughtfully, trying not to imagine him in pieces. She finds a distraction in flattering herself that a little of Wingul's particular devotion to hypothetically avenging her death originates in the nights they have shared—but knows better than to suppose even for a second that sentiment guides the majority of his actions involving her.

"…Would you mourn for me?" she asks carefully.

He closes his eyes and bows his head. That's as close an expression to defeat as Presa has ever seen on Wingul's proud features, but even like this, he maintains his dignity. "Grief is futile," he says quietly. "Dwelling on what has already happened does nothing."

Presa sighs. "If you truly love something, you can't help it."

Wingul raises his eyebrows at her implication, but does not either confirm or deny the truth of it. "When people close to me die, I occupy myself with things they would have wanted me to do," he explains coolly. "For my father, I waged war on his killer. For my mother, I ensured that our clan would live through that war. For Nils, I brought the orphans of Labari Hollow to safety. For Jiao, I have dedicated all my energy to the fight against Exodus." He pauses, meeting her eyes levelly. "What would you have me do for _you_?"

It's Presa's turn to bow her head as she thinks. Wingul waits patiently for her answer, almost as though he cares what she says. "Start being honest with yourself," is her only response, as she looks back up at his starlit features. "About how you really feel."

Presa expects Wingul to turn on his heel and stalk away from her, annoyed at her audacity—but instead, he only frowns slightly and crosses his arms. "Honesty," he sighs. "I've always striven to be as truthful as possible, and here you are, telling me I haven't even begun." Wingul shakes his head, looking almost amused as he caresses her cheek with unusual gentleness, turning away.

"…Good night," says Presa uncertainly, touching her face where his fingers brushed.

"Go to sleep, Presa," he responds. "And remember—there is no such thing as love."

She smiles faintly to herself in reply, closing her eyes as the door to the castle opens and closes, her own words on his contradictory lips sinking slowly into her soul. Presa certainly didn't expect Wingul to offer her any consolation, but he reminded her that she is an integral part of the Chimeriad—and no matter how she feels about _him_, she cannot abandon her duty to them.

Why does it matter if he betrays her again? It will only prove her right. Besides, Presa was practically a child the first time around; now, she's capable of fighting back. She'll stand proudly by Gaius, the fangs of his chimera, and hope _he_ realizes that he has no place there. He belongs with that gaggle of misfits, and he deserves to realize that before she or Wingul or anyone else kills him.

Her mind oddly soothed, Presa closes the door to the chill of the night and walks through the halls of the castle, her resolve growing stronger with every thought of the loyalty of her true allies. _There is no such thing as love._ She refuses to let _him_ convert her into a traitor… even if the alternative means her death. _There is no such thing as love. _She must fulfill her mission, and she must ensure he finds his real place in the world; it's not with her.

There's no such thing as love, huh,_ thinks Alvin, lying on the palace roof and gazing blindly at the stars with his eyes full of Presa, and the already unbearable weight in his heart grows heavier still, aching more and more with every pulse._


End file.
